Ache
by Begonias
Summary: Sam didn't expect this to be how his birthday played out—lying broken in a random alleyway, bleeding profusely, and not having a clue what happened or how he got here—but then again, his birthdays have never been the most enjoyable, so maybe this is just par for the course.
1. For What it's Worth

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything you recognize here. Swearing. Pardon typos, please.

**Summary: **Sam didn't expect this to be how his birthday played out—lying broken in a random alleyway, bleeding profusely, and not having a clue what happened or how he got here—but then again, his birthdays have never been the most enjoyable, so maybe this is just par for the course.

* * *

_There's something happening here_  
_ What it is ain't exactly clear_  
_ There's a man with a gun over there_  
_ Telling me I got to beware  
_~Buffalo Springfield ("For What it's Worth")

* * *

**Ache**  
Begonias  
Chapter One—For What it's Worth

* * *

There's a tightness in his chest and a pounding in his head, but all he's capable of paying attention to is the biting chill in the air, despite the fact that it's early May and spring has long since settled in St. Louis, Missouri. The steel breeze seeps through his too-thin jacket and t-shirt.

There's something keeping him worm, though, bursting out of his side like the lava in the volcano he made for the science fair in Tennessee when he was in the sixth grade (which he got a 100 on, thank you very much. Not that Dad would care anyway). It's hot and thick and Sam can tell without even opening his eyes that it's blood.

His arm feels like it's bent the wrong way and he doesn't remember how that happened, no matter how hard he tries. It doesn't hurt. _He_ doesn't hurt...except for the dull thrum in his head that's only progressively worsening.

Sam's tired...so tired.

He searches his brain desperately, trying to remember what happened and for the life of him cannot remember. It brings a small surge of panic spreading through him, because where's Dean? And his Dad? Where is_ he_?

He takes stock of the situation.

He's lying face-down in a shady alleyway, there's blood blossoming out of his side, and he can't bring himself to move, to feel.

He attempts to get up, causing his head to pulse (_throb, throb, throb, _goes his head) in tandem with his erratic heartbeat. He can't move, it aches too much. He wills himself to look at the wound in his side, maybe as a half-assed attempt to triage himself, bring himself some reassurance that's he's not _too _bad off.

But what he sees isn't reassuring.

There's a large piece of windshield glass embedded deep in his side, all the way up, deep but hopefully not too deep, and he tries to regain his composure by taking deep, even breaths, which proves to be quite difficult. This only proves that he was in a car...and if he tries hard enough he gets brief little flashes of memory from earlier in the day.

He moans, hating how a car accident is what will do him in. _Oh, shit._

His ribs _hurt_. Cracked or broken, he can't tell. But at the moment, he's got a lot to deal with. And all he knows is that he needs to get his shit together, call Dean, and figure out a way to get all the bleeding to stop.

He just can't move and he can barely see through the blur his eyes created but all he knows is it's dark now and it was morning when he walked out of the motel this morning.

_Okay, think, Sam, think. Why did you leave the motel this morning? _

He can't figure it out, and that's what scares him the most. All he knows is that he started in a car and now he's out of the car. And how he got to be in this alleyway is beyond him.

He can't remember. He _can't. _

* * *

Dean breathes into his hands, feels the pressure in his head. Sees colors. Hears the news blasting from the TV from the grimy Blue Light Motel they're staying in, but it's only a distant sound, pushed far back in his mind. He has only one thing on his mind right now.

Sam left this morning at around 9 AM for...something. Took the car with Dean's permission and Dean didn't give two shits.

Just walked out, with a muffled explanation of where he was going and a shitty goodbye.

And Dean didn't pay attention at all...just figured maybe he was out to get something to drink or eat or...something. Something logical, something Sam would do. Or—now that Dean thinks about it—going to some friend's to study.

But whatever it was, Dean didn't really care to find out, and now he's paying the price for that one. He told him to be back by 1 PM because they had to take shifts cleaning the guns.

_Um, I think he should be back by now, damn it. _

Sam's been gone seven hours.

Dean's tried calling him multiple times.

But his phone is off.

Dean is beside himself, because being in this line of work makes you naturally paranoid, cynical, always assuming the worst.

And with Dad hunting the rougarou a few states over...he has no one to call for help.

It seems as though Dean's stuck between a rock and a hard place, at least it sure as fuck feels like it. The tension in his head is unbelievable, white hot behind his eyes. He spent the day with the citizens of St. Louis, walking up and down streets and asking people if they've seen Sam, not worrying too much yet because it could just be Sam and his scatterbrained self for all he knows.

But...

Sam is literally the epitome of a real-life, walking and talking, palpable Murphy's law. Where trouble can be found (and that's everywhere in this line of business) it'll somehow always trace itself back to Sammy. No matter what, and it's always in the worst possible way it can hit. He's like a goddamn trouble magnet, not to mention a ghost/demon/monster magnet. Maybe that's why Dad was just a little harder on Sam when it came to training; maybe that's why he pushed him just a _little_ harder when it came to weaponry and sparring, because maybe Dad sees it, too. Sees the strange fixation all the baddies have on Dean's little brother.

Dean sighs, reads newspapers. Looks for any strings for disappearances that may just help him out if needed. Because—call it his Sammy radar—he's got a bad feeling...and his bad feelings almost always turn out to be right in retrospect. His heart is racing...he can't shake this awful feeling he's got. And he always overreacts when it comes to Sam.

None. No news. No disappearances. So Dean crosses that off the mental checklist in his head.

And that's good...though it would have been quite a help to have some kind of lead.

No news like this. No missing people, children.

No people missing? No recent unexplainable deaths? No signs of any monsters?

But, no, Dean's _thrilled_ about that—the lack of evil around him. He's just not used to that.

But he's glad for lack of news because he can't imagine what it would be like to have a missing family member like that, having to look around everywhere and clinging desperately to every little shred of hope that's thrown your way, hoping, praying, oh God, please let them still be alive.

Dean swallows thickly, getting rid of the giant lump in his throat.

That's a lie. He _can._

* * *

Sam's hair sticks to his sweaty, clammy face. The ground beneath him is starting to feel softer but he's only vaguely aware of the sensation. Everything everywhere hurts, and Sam misses what he felt like when he first woke up: that feeling of numb detachment. He craves it.

Sam's arm is broken. He can feel it now, pain edging more intensely as he just lays here, on the cold cement. He wishes someone would walk or drive by because the world is spinning and there are spots dotting his eyes and there's such a blind aching in his head.

He wants to cry.

Isn't this just a great birthday. What a great way to start being seventeen.

Breathing hurts, his head hurts, and the glass pushed into him needs to come out now or he may just flip out. But deep down, he hears his father's voice, ordering him to "Stop it, Sammy. The glass is holding the blood in place. It could be the only thing keeping you alive right now."

Sam hasn't been getting along with his dad a lot as of late but nonetheless, he'd give anything to have him here right now. He'd keep him calm, keep him from crying because in reality, it's all he wants to do at the moment.

His breathing is getting more labored. No matter how hard he tries he can't bring himself to move.

The blood is thick and warm and it spreads underneath him in a big, dark pool. It shines almost black against the reflection of the moonlight. He breathes through it.

He can't remember the day but it's not important anymore. He remembers he took the car that Dean was using (Dad had the Impala, couldn't part that long without it) and that's it. Sam can't change anything. And didn't Dad always want him to change? Always wanted him to be better. More like Dean.

Maybe he tried to be more like him tonight.

Maybe he tried.

Maybe.

And look where it got him.

He attempts to crawl out of the alley but he finally notices the way he's wedged awkwardly in a concrete corner behind a green and slimy dumpster.

But at this point he doesn't know if he even _wants _to move anymore. He's too tired and his arm hurts and crawling with one hand just seems to hard. So...hard.

He'll probably die here. And isn't that the kicker. A miserable end to an even more miserable life.

How ironic, too. Death on the day you were born.

Sam chokes out a wet, sad laugh at that, and then swallows the coppery taste filling his mouth.

Oh, shit. Internally bleeding is never good. He'll die shortly, and..maybe he's actually okay with that.

That numb feeling is settling over again, but only if he concentrates hard enough and disregards the feeling of needles threading painfully through him. He aches. He hopes it's raining because his eyes won't stop watering.

When he moves again, he screams. For the first time he feels the glass decorating his eyelashes.

Blood dribbles miserably down his chin.

He's so scared and he's so detached.

Because there's that half of him that fears the way Dean will react when he finds out, and even how his dad will react, even though Sam is convinced half the time that his dad hates him. He's so scared because he's only just turned seventeen and he has a future planned out that doesn't involve hunting monsters and running towards danger instead of running away from it like any sane person, instead one involving a college—Stanford, maybe, Sam always loved Stanford—and not hunting, and that's all he wants.

That's all.

And, God, is that too much to ask?

But then there's that detached part of him that realizes how improbable his stupid little pretentious dreams are. How worthless his life is—because in reality he'll have done nothing to help this godforsaken planet by the time his short-lived, sad, little existence will end. And how would Dad react to Stanford?

Dad would laugh in his face, and he'd do nothing but lose even more respect from his father than he already has. Because Dad already considers him a liability. And he is one.

But despite the agony Sam's feeling (and it's more than overwhelming) he moves again and screams and feels the tears of pain and exertion rolling down his face, but he doesn't give up because he's a Winchester, albeit a bad one, and Winchesters don't give up. At least he knows Dean wouldn't.

But he can't deal because he feels the pull of sleep threatening to takeover.

It would be so nice to close his eyes but Dean's bark of "No, bitch!" keeps him awake, and Sam knows why. Because the only reason he's living right now is because of Dean—Dean's the only thing that makes this lifestyle only slightly worth living.

He wishes Dean were here because there's blood pouring out of his mouth and he fears he'll choke on it before dying of internal injuries, though he's sure some sort of vital organ somewhere has been hit.

Sam's not even going to pretend he's not crying, because he totally is. It hurts.

Throbs.

Aches.

And so with that, he's done, and he feels oh so shitty for giving up like this.

And even shittier that his death wasn't all strong and brave and heroic and noble; not even anything supernatural-related. Just a goddamn car crash. He doesn't know where the car is, only knows that he's relieved that it wasn't the Impala that he was driving. So maybe Dean won't be that mad if he closes his eyes and rests a while.

Darkness overtakes him.

_Happy birthday to me._

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! Chapter two will be up soon. Please review!


	2. White Room

**Disclaimer: **As per usual, I don't own anything mentioned below.

* * *

_In the white room with black curtains near the station_  
_ Black roof country, no gold pavements, tired starlings_  
_ Silver horses ran down moonbeams in your dark eyes_  
_ Dawn light smiles on you leaving, my contentment_  
~Cream ("White Room")

* * *

**Ache  
**Begonias  
Chapter Two—White Room

* * *

_If there's one thing Sam Winchester wants in life, it's to go to college. _

_In fact, there's nothing he would rather do. _

_Over the past few months he's been itching to find ways to tell Dean that he's gonna go somewhere, that he's gonna make something for himself—at least go to some community college, if that's what it takes. _

_But Sam has never been able to do it. He knows one day he'll apply somewhere and then shit will hit the fan. It'll all come crumbling down, just like most things that happen around him._

_But...he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it. _

_Yesterday at school, right before the last bell rang, Claire Page—a girl in one of his classes—invited him to a study group, which usually consists of just a few of his other friends and absolutely nothing to do with studying...just goofing around and listening to music that would make Dean want to stab himself in the face. _

_But he jumped at the chance to go, mostly as some kind of distraction, because after staying weeks in a motel with Dean at a time, school is a welcome diversion and anything having to do with socializing with someone who is _not _his brother is a relief._

_...Not that Dean is that much of a bother. But Sam can only handle so much AC/DC at a time...always blasting from the headphones of Dean's Walkman, from the radio in his car. _

_Dean sits slouching in his chair, picking his fingernails with a knife. _

_"I'm gonna take the car out, okay?" _

_"Where you even goin'?" Dean doesn't look up. He's hung over, Sam can tell, but with Dad gone, Dean's taken it upon himself to hit up the bar as often as possible...having a little bit more to drink than he probably should at his age. _

_"Just...to a friend's," Sam mumbles. _

_"Alright, whatever. Just be back at one." _

_Sam leaves without another word._

* * *

_Claire's house is fun and bright and big. Pearl Jam plays from her radio—it's the music Sam loves but is never able to listen to with Dean always the one calling the shots. It's...nice, in a way. Sam doesn't have a problem with Led Zeppelin—in fact, he likes them. But Dean is only willing to listen to like, three different albums. Variety is always appreciated._

_"Hey, Sam," Bryan Adams says, "isn't it your birthday today, man?" _

_Sam notices how sad this is—that his own brother didn't even acknowledge that fact but some kid Sam's known only for a few weeks remembers. _

_But birthdays have never been anything worth celebrating to the Winchesters—just another day passed and another year older. Every once in a blue moon when Dad's in between hunts and it's one of their birthdays they'll go somewhere "special" to eat ("special" being just some other diner in just some other town—but Dad says it's special and Dean acts like it's special, so maybe it is for everyone else except him), get shitty presents, and then go on to discuss the hunt as though nothing ever happened. _

_But it's always the hunt first. Always has been, always will be, and birthdays will just have to be pushed into the back of their minds, because they're Winchesters and they can't afford some kind of distraction while on the job. Sam wonders if Dad will call, remember at all even after he gets back. It wouldn't be the first time he forgot._

_Cynthia gasps out, "Oh, my God! It's your birthday?" _

_Sam shyly smiles and sinks a little lower into the couch he's sitting on, feeling uncomfortable—but that's to be expected because he feels out of place everywhere he goes. It's just something he's gotten used to. _

_They all sing him happy birthday (which makes him feel like his face is on fire) and Claire decides randomly that they're going to bake Sam a cake. _

_Time slips away from him, but for once, Sam's enjoying himself._

* * *

_"Damn it." Sam clicks on his phone. "My phone's dead. What time is it?" _

_"4:45." _

_"Shit!" he swears, scrambling up immediately. "I was supposed to be home at 1! My brother's gonna—" With that, he cuts himself off abruptly. "Claire, thank you for having me over and everything, but I really have to go." _

_"Oh, come on, Sam," Claire says, her voice laced with something that sounds similar to seduction. "_Please_, stay." _

_Oh, God, he wants to. She's so beautiful and he's been trying to work up the courage to ask her out for a while now...and it was like she was pretty much _begging _him to not leave._

_"I—I can't," he stutters, feeling extremely bummed, the disappointment spreading through his blood like a forest fire. "I gotta get back home. Bye, guys." _

_"Bye," they all say in unison, Bryan giving a half-hearted wave with his hand._

Oh, man, _Sam thinks. _Dean's probably been trying to call me for hours. How did I let this happen?

_Well...he knows why this happened. It's that exhilarating pull of normalcy; it's intoxicating. For once he feels like a kid, and when did seventeen stop being a kid?_

_Shit. No wonder Dad thinks he's such a fuck-up. How ironic—Sam always tries so hard to prove his bravery, his responsibility, his willingness to try and fit in with Dad's high standards as Dean so effortlessly does, and he goes and screws something like this up._

_And the drive from Claire's house to the motel is about a half hour. Shit._

_Sam piles into the car and slams his foot, flooring it. _

_Dean's gonna be _pissed_._

_It's the last coherent thought he has before a black Sedan narrowly avoids colliding into him. Sam swerves. His world goes ass over tea kettle, the world sways, and Sam flies through the windshield, his body limply crashing into the nearby alley._

* * *

_Marie Boucher leans forward, closer into the compact mirror she usually keeps in her purse. Covertly, she attempts to do her eye make-up (Jeffery—her...boyfriend/not-boyfriend likes it when she wears a lot of make-up) and to drive at the same time. _

_Her black 1990 Sedan is kind of old to her, the brakes squeaking every time she makes a stop, but she loves her car all the same. It was a gift from her papa the day she turned sixteen—about five years ago now, a day she'd never forget—and has kept it ever since. _

_She doesn't pay attention and that's her own fault. Jeffery's always called her a ditzy blonde thing, and for the first time she's starting to think he's right. _

_Marie is the only one on the road besides this other car—one she doesn't know the name of, but then again, she's never been good with car names—and it's going pretty fast. _

_She barely manages to avoid stabbing herself in the eyeball with her eyeliner when she makes the quick turn. _

_Perhaps it's the turn that causes everything. _

_Maybe it was due to the fact that she was doing her makeup (actually, she knows for a fact that that is the reason why), but she forgets to turn her blinker on, something that is considered one of the most important things you could do while driving. _

_She swerves into the other car's lane, accidentally cutting him off by an alleyway. _

_She sees him now; he's just a kid. _

_But it's too late. _

_The kid tries to avoid running into Marie, so instead he spins out sideways, his car slamming into a pole and she can barely avert her eyes as she witnesses him smash through the car's windshield and into the alley, his body making an audible thud_ _as he lands on the concrete. _

_He lies, unblinking, on the cold hard ground._

_She cuts the brakes but, sickened, she doesn't get out of her car, instead choosing to slam her head into the steering wheel. She wants to cry. _

_Because, what should she do? She can't risk this child dying, and here he is, lying unconscious, bleeding from everywhere, maybe even dead, for all she knows. She doesn't have a freaking medical degree._

_And she's got that date with Jeffery tonight; she can't miss that. _

He's probably dead already, _she tries to tell herself, mostly to rationalize things. She feels sick. _He probably can't be saved.

_And she can't risk getting into law trouble right now. She's way too pretty to go to jail, she is. _

Okay, _she thinks, slamming her foot on the gas pedal, leaving the boy for dead. _Okay.

* * *

Sam's mouth tastes like cotton balls and his body feels really heavy, just like his eyelids.

He shifts a little, finding it a little bit more than difficult.

He feels something digging in his hand, and it takes him a little while to realize that his eyes have actually been closed the entire time.

He touches whatever's digging into his arm, trying to get rid of it, because it's quite uncomfortable.

"Oh, sweetie, no!" he hears a sweet voice say. The disembodied voice grows louder as it seems to get closer. "That's your IV! You can't take that out."

Sam half groans, half moans, wishing he could just clear his head and _move_. "Now, can you wake up for me?" What does she think he's been trying to do? "Very good," she encourages, her words sickly sweet to the point where it almost sounds condescending, but Sam doubts that's intentional.

Sam finally blinks, room white and blinding. Blurred.

His head sags back into the fluffy pillow...a pillow too fluffy to be a motel room pillow. He feels a pressure on his leg and arm and...everywhere, and confused, grunts a disoriented, "Wha—?"

"You have a hairline fracture on your leg, sweetheart." She shakes her head in sympathy, saccharine. "Broken arm, bad concussion..."

Oh.

Sam tries to giggle but it comes out as a shudder instead. The arm he remembers, if he really thinks about it. The leg...not so much.

He struggles to sit up right but finds that it's easier to lie on the pillows; they're soft, the bed more comfortable than any bed he's ever been on before, but it's not like he has much to compare it to. The nurse—probably around her mid-forties—is still talking. "I'm sorry," she eventually says, causing Sam to look at her. "You just woke up...you don't want to be hearing everything that's wrong with you yet."

Well...actually, he does. It's nice to know everything so he can be prepared.

"How—" Sam winces as his voice painfully cracks, broken and hoarse. "How long have I been here?"

"Let's see...you were admitted last night at around 7...so you've been here for about twelve hours."

"Twelve?" A twinge of panic seeps within him. Dean must be a wreck. The nurse pulls out some kind of syringe and injects something into his IV.

"Well, after your surgery you were put in ICU and drugged to the gills." She sighs, looking ready to say more, but Sam stops her.

"Surgery?" he asks weakly, feeling so tired and worn and old. Older than just turned seventeen.

"Yes. As I said before, you were impaled by a piece of glass as you were thrown out of the car. We had to stitch you back up, but you're good as new."

He rolls his eyes tiredly. He sure doesn't feel that way.

"Oh, and can we have your name, sweetie?" she asks. "You're put in right now as a John Doe. We'll need your information so you can have someone here with you. I'm sure your family is worried. Your poor mother is probably beside herself."

_No_,_ no, she's not, because she's dead. _

"Uh..." He shifts slightly to get more comfortable in his bed, closing his eyes. He feels the effects of the drugs already taking ahold. "Sam...Wesson." At least he's capable of remembering to use a fake name, though "Winchester" is on the tip of his tongue. "Can I...call my brother?" But he's too tired, the bed too soft, the dull hum of the heart monitor too monotonous, droning.

Lights out.

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, so...to that anon who reviewed, I hope this clears things up for you a little bit. Looking back now I can tell how ambiguous that is but I hope that this managed to fix that a little bit. Dean's still oblivious and Sam's thoughts are a little jumbled right now. Things will be clarified soon enough.

Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews! I'm glad you're enjoying, and I hope you'll give some more feedback! :-) Thanks!


	3. Fell On Black Days

**Disclaimer: **Once again, as I have stated in the past, I do _not _own the characters (besides the OCs) or the songs or the...whatever's mentioned. :-)

* * *

_Whatsoever I fear has  
Come to life  
Whatsoever I fought off  
Became my life  
Just when everyday  
Seemed to greet me with a smile  
Sunspots have faded  
And now I'm doing time  
_~Soundgarden ("Fell On Black Days")

* * *

**Ache  
**Begonias  
Chapter Three—Fell On Black Days

* * *

"Oh my God," he says, rubbing his head. At this point, he's pretty damn sure he's lost his mind. "Jesus Christ."

Dean paces back and forth in the cramped motel room (Sam bitched a lot about that—he always wanted "privacy" or whatever).

He's out of options. He's gonna have to call Dad soon; it seems kind of inevitable at this point. Sam's gone, the car's gone, and Dean doesn't know what to do. Dad will have a heart attack, maybe acuse Sam of running away (he _wouldn't_, though. Dean just can feel it), and then maybe flip at Dean that he should have been watching him even though Sam's a big boy now and is more than capable of taking care of himself.

Jesus, he's sixteen...

Dean's head shoots up.

_Shit. _

And Dean feels like the world's biggest asshole. Sam's seventeenth birthday was yesterday and he didn't even have the decency to even remember it and say it to him. Sam's _seventeen._

_Well, maybe that's it then, _Dean's inner monologue that's more frightening than reassuring states. _Maybe he ran away because of that. _

But that's not it, and Dean knows it. Sam's spent all this time trying so desperately to prove something to their father and Dean doesn't think running away would do anything to solve that.

But the thought of him getting taken against his will didn't sound like such a hot idea either.

_Damn it. _He breathes in his hands and tries to regain his composure. Just to try he grabs his cell phone and dials Sam's number from memory, hoping, _praying, _that he—or someone—will answer. Because he doesn't think he'll be able to hear the sound of Sam's voicemail anymore.

* * *

"Can I—" Sam swallows thickly. "Can I call my brother?"

"Yes, honey," the nurse says. She hands him a cup of ice chips and a phone that's attached to the wall. "Call your family to come up here."

Sam grabs the phone, nodding in gratitude, and she backs up. "I'll just wait out here..." and she backs out into the hospital hallway.

Sam's fingers fumble precariously around the buttons. His memory struggles to conjure up Dean's cell phone number, and that's pretty alarming because it's been drilled in his head since Dad first got them phones.

Finally he gets it, though it's kind of blurry and he wonders how bad the concussion he got really is.

He sags weakly into the pillow provided for him because, man, dialing that phone required all the energy that Sam really _doesn't _have, and he's pretty tired.

The phone rings once and then there's a scrambled, "Hello?" over the line.

"Uh..." His voice is gravelly; it feels like there are razorblades in his throat. "Dean?"

There's a beat of stunned silence, and then— "Sam?" Dean breathes a sigh of relief, and Sam can picture all of stress melt off his shoulders in one second.

"Hey, Dean..." Sam says. "What's up?"

"What's up? What's _up_?" He exhales deeply, scared yet relieved. "Sam, where in the hell are you?"

"Don't freak out or anything..."

"What? What?" Sam's eyes widen and if he could pace right now he would. But the bed is too soft and he's too exhausted and that doesn't sound that appealing at the moment.

"I'm in the hospital...uh, St. Mary's...do you, uh..." Sam blinks, feeling the cannula going up his nostrils, willing himself to stay up, not liking the drugs they have him on but not liking the pain that occurs when he breathes,_ moves _either. "Do you know where that is?"

Sam can hear the sound of bustling around, knowing Dean's getting stuff together as they speak. "Hospital? Sammy...what happened?"

"I, uh...got hit by a car..."

There's another sharp intake of air and then Sam's met with silence. Dean says, "I'll be there in five minutes." _Click._

Sam wants to tell him that it probably takes around fifteen minutes to get down here from the hotel, more with possible morning traffic, but he doesn't, because Dean doesn't give a shit about any of that. He'll go through as many stop lights as necessary, get as many speeding tickets as he can get, but it's okay.

Sam goes to bed feeling _okay_. Despite the weird, numb, almost tingly feeling spreading throughout him, Dean will be here soon, and that's enough for him at the moment. Because Dean almost always makes him feel better.

* * *

Dean breathes through his hands, steeling himself, willing himself to feel the unhinging relief he first felt when Sam was on the line, that he was actually not _missing_ or...or dead; the relief that was horribly obscured as soon as Sam mentioned hospital.

He grabs his car keys and tries to take stock of the whole situation. He drives as though he's on automatic pilot and tells himself that Sam can't be _that _bad off considering _he _was the one who called Dean but Dean can't help but notice how awful Sam sounded, how weak, and that can't be a good sign.

And why did it take so long for Dean to be notified? Surely they would have been able to get some contact information.

All this thinking leaves a pit the size of a mountain in his stomach.

A car? It would be Sam—and he just prays to God that it wasn't somehow his brother's fault; that Sam was being irresponsible and wasn't paying attention, because then he really didn't know what he'd do.

* * *

Sam's asleep by the time Dean bustles in. He speaks hurriedly and desperately to a nurse and she explains everything that she knows so far.

"You'll have to ask your brother what really happened," she tells him. "The police will probably want to talk to him because they went to the scene where he was...hit and only found Sam's car. We're hoping he'll be able to possibly identify what the car looks like, or something..."

"How did he get here? Did an ambulance find him?"

"Some man called the hospital," the nurse replies, running a hand through her hair. "We don't know if he was involved in the accident but he claimed he found him in some abandoned alley."

Dean's stomach sinks even deeper than he thought possible. The thought of his brother, alone, in an alleyway isn't a pleasant thought. He realizes they're both lucky that this was just a man unwilling to leave a poor kid hurt and alone in an alley instead of some supernatural baddie with cruel intentions, and he allows himself to breathe for a second.

"I overhear a lot at this hospital; it almost gets kinda hard sometimes." She frowns, puts a soft hand on Dean's face. "I hope you'll be able to contact your parents so they can come soon."

"My dad's a few states over, but he'll be here." He doesn't know why he's explaining himself, or why he's even lying to her for that matter. Because his dad won't be coming, and he'll probably end up busting Sam out of here before she has time to ask about insurance information.

"Before you go in there there's a few things you should know...maybe the doctor should be the one explaining everything to you."

Annoyed, Dean pushes his fingers through his hair. He waited this long to see his brother and he wants to see him _now. _

"Can I just see my brother?" He starts walking, more than ready to push Sam's room door open and the nurse doesn't make any attempts to stop him.

"Yes," she says. "He's probably asleep, but he's not heavily drugged right now so he might wake up when he hears you."

Dean nods, glad for her kind demeanor and willingness to be compliant to his frayed nerves and lack of sleep, because they're both intertwining to form a _seriously_ pissed off Dean.

She's wrong, Sam's not asleep. But his face is so swollen on one side it's kind of hard to tell if his eyes are open or not.

He's lying pretty limply on the starch white sheets. Sam's casts are the first thing that Dean pays attention to besides his brother's black and blue face; they're plastered around his arm and leg, the poor bastard.

He's watching TV, probably not paying attention, and his head turns slowly (it looks like it takes a lot of effort, Dean realizes in horror, because he really is in bad shape) and sees Dean.

"Hey," he mumbles. "You can watch whatever you want." He weakly tries to hand Dean the remote, but Dean doesn't take it. Sam drops his hand.

"Hey, Sam." Dean's voice is barely above a whisper. All he can think about is the other times when Sam's been in the hospital (the time when Sam was knifed by a vengeful spirit when he was twelve, or when he got sliced up by that nasty black dog when he was fifteen) and can't help but realize this is probably the most bad off Sam's ever been, and they're both lucky he's still alive.

"The car's totaled, isn't it?"

Dean eases himself into a chair, squeezes his eyes shut. "Jesus, Sam. I think it's you we should be worried about."

"I'm alright," he mutters, eyes fluttering closed. Dean stares at the damned cannula; it makes everything look worse. He opens his eyes and takes a look at Dean. "What about you?"

"What—what about me, Sam?"

"You're kinda lookin' rundown," Sam says to him. "Maybe you should eat. Go home and sleep. I'm not too much fun."

"You're one to talk," Dean replies with a strained smile. "And no way, man. I just got here. And all the nurses are pretty damn hot."

* * *

The doctor comes to tell Dean that his brother has a hairline fracture in the tibia bone, a severely broken arm in several places, a skull fracture from being ejected from the car and flung through the windshield (if Dean had any contents in his stomach he's sure he'd throw them all up), a few broken ribs, and horrible blood loss from a wide and long piece of glass that struck his side. It took hours of precise surgery to get the glass out and Sam's a very lucky boy.

But Sam isn't lucky. Lucky kids don't get into life-threatening car accidents. Lucky kids don't have this lifestyle, this weird kind of twist of fate. They have apple pie, cookie cutter lifestyles. They have mothers who aren't dead and fathers who are actually there for them all the time.

They're the opposite of lucky.

* * *

"Is Dad coming?"

Sam doesn't know why he asks it, because he already knows the answer. Dad's hunting the rougarou and he probably can't be bothered to leave now.

Dean looks sheepish. "I didn't tell him yet."

Sam nods. "Good. Don't tell him."

"He'll probably have a heart attack when he gets back. Scare ten years off his life."

It's probably supposed to make him feel better, but it doesn't. In fact, it does quite the opposite. Now he really wants to cry. Cry about his relationship with his father, with his brother, about the childhood they never really had. Or the fact that he'll never go to college and Dean will probably never get to be happy, because no matter how much Dean acts like he's content with his life Sam knows it's all a façade, an act, and Dean is really the one who deserves happiness.

"I don't know what to do," Sam says aloud, meaning about everything. About what to _do_, because absolutely nothing feels right. He doesn't feel comfortable in his own goddamn_ skin_ anymore. He can't please everyone but he'd really like to try, but no matter what he does he always ends up hurting someone.

"You could find a way to keep Dad from murdering me in my sleep," Dean offers halfheartedly, his eyes not leaving Sam's face.

Sam hurts and he's tired and he really wants to cry even though he's seventeen and Dean never cried at seventeen.

He wants to go to college and be happy and he wants to understand why these wants are so far-fetched to his father, because these goals really aren't that unthinkable to him. He wants happiness for his brother and his father, but he knows that his father won't be happy until he finds whatever killed their mother because that's what it's all really about.

Sam blinks repeatedly to keep his eyes from watering, wondering what drugs he's on that make him feel so tired and upset, but really, tired and upset go hand in hand with him.

Dean studies his face with a strange mixture of caution and love, like he's afraid Sam will crack or will be in pain or maybe even cry, but he won't because that's not what a Winchester would do.

"It'll be okay, man," Dean's baritone rumbles, and Sam closes his eyes. "Just take it easy for a while and it'll be fine."

But it won't be. Nothing ever is.

* * *

**REALLY LONG A/N, BUT PLEASE READ: **Argh. So I've been really far behind on my _Outsiders_ fanfiction updates, but I've really been feeling this story and I've been wanting to write a lot for it. Sorry this took so long, by the way. But with high school, guitar lessons, play practice, chess club, my research paper, the new release of Rick Riordan's _The House of Hades, _band practice, and dealing with the six hour drive from STL to Chicago for ChiCon 2013 this weekend (I met Osric, guys!), I've been kind of busy. I don't know why I'm telling you my life story but I am trying to give a reasonable explanation for my lateness with this update, lol.

Thanks as always for reading. This chapter was angsty, but, you know...I can't help it. :-)

Please, please review. You're da bombs.

_**P.S.**_ Can someone help me find a fic? It's the first SPN fanfic I ever read, and I can't remember who wrote it or what it's called.

I know it's about Dean getting really, really sick and he needs some kind of operation done and the only person who can give him an organ, like a kidney or something (maybe? can't remember) is Sam, but he's at Stanford.

So John calls Sam at Stanford and then Sam complies, and meets them at the hospital. The surgery is successful for Dean but then Sam gets really sick. And he's even worse off than Dean was at the start of it all.

It's driving me batshit insane, actually. So...if you know what I'm talking about, please tell me.


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